Pesach
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark wants to bring Roger home for Passover. MarkRoger slash. COMPLETE!
1. Come Home

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

WARNING: Sexual content. It's not smut, but there is open discussion.

Mark listened to his heart beat, felt the blood pump through his body. There was a familiar soreness at the back of his throat. He was tingling and sweating all over; the bed was warm. Mark stared at the ceiling, distant and spiraling in the darkness, and tried to sleep.

His eyes would not close. His mind raced ahead, through shapes and worry as to what he would be doing tomorrow and if, in his sore state, he would manage. Neither he nor Roger had left the loft in three days, the cold kept them from desiring fresh air, and there had been plenty of noodles and soup to keep them fed. Now Monday approached, and with it an end to their sphere of seclusion.

The telephone rang.

It rang again.

On the third ring Mark decided that he might get out of bed if Collins was calling. Might. But he didn't know where his sweatpants were, and the bed was so comfortable. He might get up, but he would guilt Collins for waking him, though he had not been asleep.

"SPEAK!"

"Mark? Mark, it's Mom! Listen, honey, it's April and you know what that means. Passover! Come home for sedar, sweetie. Dad misses you, and he is sorry for the terms you two parted on… in fact, Mark… you know, it would mean a lot if you came home. For heaven's sake, it's been years, and, well… honey, he hasn't been the same since his… since he was in the hospital about ten months ago. I didn't want to worry you with it, but he wants to speak to you, Mark. You never answer the phone. Come home for the sedar, honey."

Mark bit his lip. He hadn't known his father was in the hospital. Surely he would have visited… he would have done something. He sighed, then rolled onto his left side.

"Rog?"

Mark pushed himself up on one elbow. Roger was covered in sweat, but there was no mistaking the pewter token gleaming on his chest. This could go very poorly. Mark lifted the thing. It was heavy-- he wouldn't want to wear something that weighty around his neck. He did wear a Star of David, more from habit than anything else, but it was easily forgotten, a thin gold chain he had been wearing since turning thirteen.

Mark sat up. He hunted on the floor for sweatpants, running his hands across dust, dirty dishes and a pair of underpants before finding the sweats. He tugged them on, cinched up the drawstring and tiptoed out of the room, taking the dishes with him.

Mark closed the door quietly. As he crossed the loft, his heels caught the hems of the sweatpants. _Oops._ Mark had taken Roger's pants by mistake. Not terribly fussed by this, he set the dishes down in the sink, then picked up the telephone. He cinched the receiver between his shoulder and his ear and dialed eleven digits.

The phone rang twice before a child's voice asked, "Hello?" Mark heard giggling and cries in the background; obviously, his sister's children were near the phone.

This suspicion was confirmed by a distant scolding: "Ethan! I've told you before, the telephone is not a toy!" Over Ethan's whining, Mark heard, "Hello?" in an older voice.

"Hi… Cindy?"

"Yes, speaking."

He hadn't heard his sister's voice in years. She sounded softer than he recalled, more subdued and almost sad. "Is m--" Mark choked. He couldn't bring himself to ask for 'Mom', so instead said, "Is Lily there?"

"Just a minute, I'll get her." The phone was set down, Ethan warned not to touch it, and for a moment Mark was left alone, listening to the rain drip outside and, through the telephone, the kids shout. Ethan was the loudest, but a girl's voice pealed through occasionally.

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

There was a momentary pause, then, "Mark!"

Mark blushed. "Hey, Mom. Yeah, it's me. Listen, I… I'll be there, for Passover."

"Well… I… Mark, honey, that's wonderful. That's… oh, I can't wait. We'll have latkes! It's not traditional, but you always loved my latkes," she reminded him. Mark was blushing deeper by the second. "So, I only have a few minutes but tell me: what's going on in your life? Is there someone, hm?"

"There's…" Mark paused. Did he want Roger at the sedar? Did he want to bring his attentive, dirty-minded, occasionally mournful boyfriend to his parents' house? Mark had not even come out of the closet to them. He had started dating Roger well after he stopped talking to his parents. "Yeah, Mom. There's someone."

---

"Roger!" Mark hissed, and gave a little shake.

"What?" Roger squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Something wrong?" he asked, blinking. "Mark?" Roger's hand wandered through the darkness, searching.

Mark raised his hand to meet Roger's. "How long has it been since we went out?" Mark asked.

Roger gave a little hum to indicate that he was thinking, or savoring a thought. "Three days. Four times on top, twice on the bottom. Fellated… I dunno."

"That my count or yours?" Mark wondered.

"Yours. Mine is twice on top, four times on the bottom, and you gave me head once. No, twice. Once in the shower and once to wake me up," Roger recounted. "It's been a goood weekend. That's why I'm asleep at--" he raised his arm to check the luminous hands of his watch "--seven forty-two p.m."

"I have a serious question," Mark said.

"Okay."

"Are you awake?"

"Yes," Roger replied sleepily.

"I want to go home for Passover," Mark announced. When Roger only nodded and murmured that that sounded like a great idea, Mark clarified, "Roger. I want to bring you home to meet my family, for Passover."

Suddenly Roger was wide awake. "You huh?"

Mark repeated the idea. "Okay?" he asked.

"Sure, babe. If that's what you want."

Roger yawned, but forced himself not to fall asleep again, regardless of his heavy eyelids. "That's it," Mark promised. He kissed Roger's hand. "You can go back to sleep now."

TO BE CONTINUED!

Well? What do you think? I've never done a slash that wasn't one-shot before, so I'm nervous on how this turns out.

Happy Pesach!


	2. The Cohen Family

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It had never been a good car, but it had been fairly reliable. Now that the boys owned it, serviceable was a better word. The heater was broken, the paint chipped so thoroughly it was difficult to tell if the brown or rusted blue was the top layer, and the locks barely worked. The driver's side doorhandle was loose and in danger of falling off and the window on the passenger side only opened two inches.

Old Clunker, as Roger had affectionately dubbed her, jolted to a halt. "We're here!" Roger announced.

Mark said, "Ulp." He unbuckled the seatbelt that had started to choke him. "Okay," he said, breathless. "Let's go."

Roger grabbed their overnight bag from the back and hopped out of the car, slamming his door as he did. He gave the car a pat. "Reliable old girl," he said. "Got us here in no time."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Most guys like sports cars," he said.

"You'd know!" Roger retorted.

"Touché."

They trod the walk to the front door of a two-story house. Roger said nothing, but the sight raised questions and vague realizations about Mark's childhood. He came from money, no question about that. The wood exterior made clear the circumstances of Mark's family. There was an absence of pets or animal paraphernalia.

Mark rang the doorbell. He twitched, turned to Roger and began to finger-comb his hair, muttered, "Damn curls…"

"Mark!" Roger pushed away his boyfriend's hands. "Hey, enough, okay? I combed it this morning. Calm down."

"I can't," Mark said. He bounced to the balls of his feet. "They don't even know I'm gay. You have to make a good impression--"

"I will," Roger promised. He had done all right when he met Mrs. Marquez, an elderly Catholic lady who demanded to know why her daughter needed to choose a _gringo_ boy.

Mark gave a little groan of frustration. "They have to like you. I don't know what I'll do if they don't." He squirmed and quickly rubbed his thighs. "Not to mention the itch."

Roger grinned. He had caused the itch with a combination of nipping and sucking on Mark's inner thighs, leaving an array of scrapes and hickeys. "Sorry, babe." He kissed Mark's cheek. "Is it awful?"

"_Yes_."

The door flew open. "Mark!" Roger leaned back as _someone_ pulled Mark into a tight hug. He could see only her hair, dark, curly and completely defiant of clips. "I'm so glad you came."

Mark stepped back. He gave his glasses a push with one index finger, straightening them. "Hi, Cindy," he said. "Um, this is Roger. He's my--"

They were not unlike in appearance; their faces were similar despite the wide difference in hair color. Cindy wore no glasses, but Roger was fairly certain he saw the rim of a contact lens not matched to her iris. "Oh my G-d," she interrupted. "Your boyfriend? Oh, Mark. Mom and Dad don't know, do they?" Mark shook his head. "Best tell them quick then. Like a band-aid. Come in."

Mark passed his sister quickly and strode into the living room. It was a decent mess: books on the table, scads of sheet music atop the piano. He shivered. Cindy had taken immediately to the piano, and Mark was expected to do the same. Years of futile banging had ended only when, at thirteen, he calculated the exact amount of money his parents had spent on lessons for their son to learn 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat'.

"I'm Cindy, Mark's sister," Cindy said, offering her hand to Roger.

"Roger Davis," he said, and shook.

"Goy?"

"Um…"

"A gentile, yes?" Cindy asked. Roger nodded. "Ouch."

From the next room came a screech of, "Uncle Mark!" Roger and Cindy hurried towards the commotion just in time to see a three-and-a-half-foot-tall monster attach itself to Mark.

"Hey," Mark said, surprised. He hadn't seen Lea in three years, and had expected her to treat him as a complete stranger. He lifted her. "Oof, Lea, where's the little girl I remember? You've gotten huge! You must've grown at least two feet!"

Lea giggled. Before Mark had the chance to set her down, two more children raced out and began systematically attacking him, one boy with enthusiastic if misguided karate-style action and the other by wrapping himself around Mark's left leg and biting. "Augh! What-- Ethan! David!"

The karate-action boy kept shouting, "Attack! Attack!"

"Boys," Cindy said. "Ethan, stop it!" Karate-boy froze. Mark set Lea down carefully, the biter still attached to his calf. "Please do not harm Mommy's brother, or he might not come back next year."

This pushed Lea over the edge. "Leave him alone," she told her brother, and gave a fierce shove.

"Lea!" Cindy turned to Mark. "Mom and Dad are waiting for you in their bedroom. Maybe you had better go see them while I sort out this mess."

---

Mark paused outside the door to his parents' bedroom. His heart waged war on his ribcage. He took a deep breath and slicked down his hair once more, then glanced at Roger. "Do you want me…?" Roger asked, giving a little shrug and shake of the head.

"Yes," Mark answered. "Definitely yes." He grabbed Roger's hand and forced himself to step into the room.

"Marcus Daniel Cohen!" Lily Cohen, the source of Cindy's rebelliously curly hair, had never been quiet. She grabbed her son's shoulders and kissed him once on each cheek. "Three years. Mark, you're too thin." She lifted the hem of his shirt an inch before he squirmed away, blushing and protesting. "Well, we'll just have to feed you. Fatten you up. At least tell me you take care of your health. Your apartment has good heating. I don't wanting you catching tuberculosis…"

"We…" Mark glanced at Roger. "We have a good heating system," he said. His parents didn't need to know that said system involved lying under the covers in an endless embrace.

Samuel Cohen was an overweight, balding man who looked as though he belonged on an lawnchair in an advertisement for a sale at the Home Depot. He stood, glanced at his son and said, "Marcus."

"Hi, Dad," Mark said.

"Your mother said you were bringin' someone," he said, his New England drawl taking on an accusatory tone. "I thought she meant like a girlfriend."

"Actually, Dad…" Mark swallowed, but the lump in his throat would not go away. "This is Roger. He's… my boyfriend." The words escaped Mark with a great effort; after saying them, he took a few deep breaths and grinned, suddenly lighter.

Mark's parents had frozen. Lily had a forced smile; Samuel looked as though he'd been slapped. Roger gaze Mark's hand a squeeze. At last Samuel opened his mouth and laughed. It was a cruel, cackling laugh, one of the worst sounds Roger had ever heard. "That's a joke," he said. "You're jokin', right? That's okay, son. I might'a been disappointed you hadn't found a nice girl, but that's a good joke."

Hurt, Mark stammered, "It's not a joke. It's… it's serious. This is my boyfriend."

Samuel bit his lip. His face had a pinched expression, yet his eyes expanded enormously. "Mark, I think you better go to your room and unpack now."

TO BE CONTINUED!

For those asking/wondering, I am Jewish, reformed not Orthodox.

More soon! I live off reviews (I used to live off Cheez-Its, but you can't have those during Pesach. Drat!)


	3. All That Matters

PLEASE stop writing me reviews saying that you oppose Mark/Roger fics. This is a Mark/Roger fic and will continue to be a Mark/Roger fic. The summary says so. If you don't like it, don't read it. Your opposition will not change my views or my story.

To everyone else, that's most reviewers, thank you, I love hearing from you and am glad to provide entertainment!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Mark found his room very much unchanged from the day he had left for college. The books were lined neatly on the shelves, one difference: his mother's work, he guessed. The knick-knacks on the bureau were untouched. Mark took a red handkerchief out of the top drawer, where it was folded next to his X-Men boxers, and dusted off his music-box, a circle of blue plastic. The window displayed a number of paper fish before a false ocean background. At one time, the fish had moved in circles as the music played.

"… and you want me to welcome that into my home?" Samuel's shout carried through the walls.

Mark stiffened. He pushed the drawer closed quietly and lifted the snapshot on the bureau. It was a day at the beach. Lily wore a pink tank top and had been laughing as the picture was snapped. Samuel was happy but slightly angry, struggling to untangle a kite string. Cindy was stretched out on a towel, topping off her sunburn. Mark had his tongue wrapped around an ice cream cone.

"He's our son, it doesn't matter!" Lily retorted shrilly.

Roger stood by the door. He set their bag on the bed and watched as Mark examined the possessions he had most prized in his youth. Nothing about the room terribly surprised Roger. He smiled at the stack of notebooks peeking out from beneath the bed.

"Maybe he's not. Maybe we did a bad job of raising him, Lily, but it's one or the other! He's either our son or he's a queer!"

Mark went rigid. He had not expected his father to approve of his choice, but never had he imagined such an ultimatum. His heart twisted, and he wanted to be sick.

"Mark," Roger said softly. Mark shook his head. This wasn't something Roger could understand. His gut turned slowly to water. "Mark, look at me." Mark took a deep breath, shuddering and gasping. This could not end well. He turned and tried to think up some form of apology. "Come here," Roger said. When Mark remained still, Roger strode to him and pulled him into a hug. Mark didn't fight it, but there was a roughness to the hug, an awkwardness, as though it was both comfort and restraint.

The Cohen parents argued more softly, in hushed, angry tones, as Roger held Mark, stroking his hair gently and promising that everything would be all right. "I'm sorry for this," Mark muttered. "It's not fair to you."

"It's not fair to you, either," Roger observed.

Mark pulled away. He wasn't ready for this. He had always trusted Roger-- as a friend, a roommate. Mark wouldn't cry in front of many people. He was never hysterical, never lost control, and preferred to begin crying alone, give himself a few seconds and then pull together. He had not expected Roger's sensitivity to flare as it did. Roger wanted to hug and pet and comfort, and that was fine, Mark liked that, but he was not going to cry in front of Roger.

"I'll be right back," he said, stung by the hurt expression on Roger's puppy face as he nodded.

When Mark was in the bathroom splashing cold water on his face, Lily Cohen knocked on the open door to his bedroom. Roger looked. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Cohen. Mark's just in the bathroom."

Lily nodded. "Roger, right?" she asked.

"Yeah. Yes. Roger Davis," Roger said. He offered his hand; she shook.

"So, how long have you and Mark been together?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Roger considered the question. He appreciated what she was doing, how hard she must have been trying. "We've lived together for… it must be about five years now. A little less. We've been… uh, romantically involved for a little over a year."

Lily nodded. She spotted the guitar on Mark's bed and, recounting her son's inability to learn a simple piano melody, asked, "So, you're a musician?"

Roger nodded. "Yes. I play guitar and, uh, I sing a little. It's not… I make money," he stammered. "I have a… I went to…"

It was after Mimi died. Collins took him to the school, practically had to hold his hand, practically forced him into the exam room, but once Roger was sat behind a desk with an examination in front of him, instinct kicked in. After April he had been moping and lethargic; after Mimi, he was manic. Roger worked. He played a few solo gigs, unable to get the band together, and scrawled his essays in the dim light and lull as he tended bar.

Only Mark and Collins knew of Roger's degree. He had blushed crimson to realize he had earned it, and protested copiously: "I don't want it. I wasn't doing it for that. I just wanted to learn." Now he was glad. He had something to present to Lily, a redeeming feature, and he offered it. He wasn't a total waste.

Lily nodded. "I don't care," she said. Roger's blood ran icy cold. He had hoped for an ally in Mark's mother, someone who loved her son more than her prejudices. "I mean, that you're gay," she added hurriedly. "Roger, I just need to know that you love my son and you're good for him, and to him. That's all that matters to me."

"Mom?"

Mark stood in the doorway, shifting awkwardly. Lily turned and smiled. "Hello, Mark. I was just speaking with your…" Despite her claims, the proper word for Roger stuck in her throat. "Honey, you know we love you no matter what."

Mark nodded. "Okay," he said.

"I don't mean in spite of being gay, just… it's so good to have you home."

They embraced, awkward and empty. Over his mother's shoulder, Mark gave Roger a long look, begging.

TO BE CONTINUED

probably pretty soon, too. The next chapter's halfway finished :)


	4. I Need

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Mark whimpered. Roger looked up from his guitar, concerned, but Mark only scrunched his face in dissatisfied pain and slept on.

Roger sat by the head of Mark's bed, cross-legged on the floor with the guitar on his lap. Now he shifted the guitar, knelt and stroked Mark's hair. "Shh," he whispered. He licked his lips nervously and glanced at the doorway. _Mark shouldn't have to sleep this way. It's not right._ He had his arms pulled tight against his chest, quivering.

Embarrassment and singing were not two things Roger often associated with one another. He could easily sing before a crowd, or for his friends. Christmas with his family had meant the mass of parents, siblings, grandparents, and siblings-in-law at some moment ceased their conversations when someone said, "Why don't you sing something, Roger?" and after a chorus of agreement, Roger enjoyed a few glowing moments as the prized child, attended, loved. He would always sing.

Yet now his throat tightened. Mr. Cohen was in the next room, and Roger could practically feel his disapproval. So could Mark, apparently, because he gave another little whimper.

"Shh." Roger glanced once more at the door, sighed, then petted Mark and sang quietly, "Edelweiss, edelweiss…"

When he finished the song, Mark had relaxed. Roger sank back to the ground. Logically, he should have felt accomplished, but all he felt was useless. This was his fault. Somehow… even Roger's brain could think of no way in which he had caused this. Normally he could pin everything on himself, from the childish belief that he could, single-handedly, change the world. He could protect the people he cared about.

Roger found himself pinching his wrist hard and stopped. He looked at the door. Somewhere during the course of the song, Mark's sister had appeared "Uh… hey."

"Hey. You wanna come downstairs?" she asked. "Get something to eat? The kids are making kosher s'mores if you're interested."

_What's a kosher s'more? _"I… uh…"

Roger glanced at Mark. He said nothing, but Cindy noticed the gesture and understood. "He'll be okay," she said. "Probably sleep through the night. He's not in danger here, it's home."

"Home?" Roger couldn't help but hiss. He kept his voice low, trying not to wake Mark, but his words were clipped and sharp enough to draw blood. "You call his a home? Your father says either Mark is a straight boy or he's disowned."

Cindy shook her head. "He's angry," she said. "He didn't mean that. He said the same about me after I…" She glanced at her sleeping brother, then at Roger.

"Can I ask you something?" When Cindy nodded, Roger asked, "Your brother shows up with a guy. Why do you naturally assume he's gay?"

Cindy laughed. "Please, I've known about Mark since he hit the sixth grade." Roger didn't know what to say to that. It seemed unfair, since Mark hadn't known about Mark at that point. He had barely figured himself out at the start of their relationship. He would tremble in bed and leave the loft for hours, return without a single frame of new footage. "Well, look, if you get hungry later, there's stew, you can just heat that up. Don't touch anything else, we're half-way through cooking for tomorrow and it's taken fucking ages--I mean…"

Roger laughed. There weren't many obscenities he hadn't heard yet, as he told Cindy.

"Hey, my twins are five," she replied. "As far as they're concerned, 'poo' is an obscenity."

Again Roger laughed. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

Cindy nodded. "I'd appreciate that," she told him, smiling. "Don't forget about the stew." She was gone before it occurred to Roger to ask what she wanted to tell her kids about him and Mark. Were they friends? Or was homosexuality acceptable to Cindy? Somehow, Roger doubted that.

He sighed. The hour felt later: driving and discrimination had that impact. He was hungry, but unwilling to leave the room alone. Mark was Samuel's son and in no direct danger. Roger was a stranger. To Samuel, he was probably vice personified, not the object of Mark's affection but the cause of an affliction. Roger didn't want to face that. He closed the door and pulled his pajamas out of the bag.

"Roger?"

Roger paused, half out of his jeans. "Uh-huh?" he asked the wall.

_Since when are you modest,_ Mark wanted to ask. Instead he slurred, "Come to bed."

"I'm coming," Roger assured him, kicking his pants off his ankles and grabbing his sweats.

"No--come to bed like that," Mark said.

Roger bit his lip. It was an appealing prospect: bed, warmth, Mark, three things Roger desired as he stood, cold, wishing his boxers were somehow warm. "Here?" he asked. "In your parents' house?"

A groan answered. "I don't care. I don't care, I… I'm in pain." Mark's arm forfeited the comfort of his cocoon to entice Roger. "Make it go away?" Had Mark been proud, he might have been ashamed to beg so childishly. He was not ashamed. He wanted Roger, and he was getting Roger.

"Okay." Roger switched off the light and inched towards the bed. Poor light from the window kept him from stumbling. In a few moments he was under the covers beside Mark.

Without any attempt from either of the boys, they touched. They breathed hot breath onto one another's faces; Mark squirmed when Roger's cold toes rubbed his feet. Trying to find a comfortable, chaste position left Roger twitching like a boy with chicken pox. There was simply no way not to tangle for two grown men in a twin bed.

"Stop fighting it," Mark muttered, annoyed. Roger was supposed to be comforting him, making him feel better, not behaving as though he had the plague. "Roger!" he whispered sharply, when Roger centimetered away.

"Hm?"

Mark hated this. He hated voicing his emotions: that validated and realized them. Usually he had no need to do this: he barely needed to walk into a room but Roger would find some reason to hug him. A new, squeamish Roger had changed that. _Damn him._ Mark needed that reliability right now. He needed to know that this was what their relationship is, was and would be.

"I really need you right now."

Roger wriggled one arm beneath Mark, then looped both arms around his waist and drew him nearer. "Sorry," he muttered, his right arm shifting higher to hold Mark's shoulders. "Is this okay?" he asked.

Mark considered. He was cradled against Roger, warm and safe. "I wanted sex," he answered honestly, "but this is good, too." It was good. It was a nice place to fall asleep, in love.

TO BE CONTINUED!

The seder occurs the following evening. Hurrah! It'll get a little more dramatic with relatives, but mostly this story is going to be human interaction.

Thanks to everyone for your nice reviews! Much better than Cheez-Its...


	5. Roger's Days

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Midnight.

Cindy couldn't help but pause, her heart fluttering wildly. She glanced around her: the clock on the mantel ticked loudly and wind blew through the trees, rustling leaves. Straining her ears, she heard her brother muttering in his sleep, as he always had, and the coughing snores that always alarmed her, though she knew her father slept through them. Her children were quiet sleepers.

She dialed.

"Cindy."

"Izzy." His voice relaxed her. "How are you? How's… everything, how are you and Montana doing?"

"We're great. You?"

"Fine." She squeezed her eyes shut and swiped at her nose before it had the chance to run. "We're all fine."

"The kids?"

"Fine," she repeated.

"Are they… asking about… asking for…?"

"Oh, of course they are. You know they are." Cindy tried not to snap. She had agreed to this. They both agreed it was for the best. When that decision was reached, she had not thought of the future, and now here she was, sneaking a phone call in her parents' house. "Maybe… maybe soon," she told him.

"Please soon? I don't want them to forget."

"Forget?" Cindy laughed, remembering how Lea had known Mark even after three years. "No, they won't forget. Give it time."

"All right. You taking care of yourself?"

"Of course. You?"

"Yes."

"Good night, Izzy."

"Good night, Cindy."

---

The first thing Mark noticed when he awoke was a pair of green eyes watching him intently. He smiled. "Hey, Roger."

"Morning, Sunshine."

Mark sighed. He had not expected Roger to be a sentimental sort of boyfriend, but he was all hugging and cuddling and pet names. Not that Mark was complaining, he was also horny as a schoolgirl, though that had decreased over the past year. "Ready for Passover?" Roger asked.

"I am. You're not," Mark replied.

Roger kissed his face. "I can do it," he assured Mark.

"You've never had an old Jewish woman say 'Feh' at you. You won't survive without me," Mark retorted, lacing his arms around Roger's neck.

"But then, I wouldn't want to," Roger replied. He was already holding Mark, flexing the tingling fingers on his right hand, but he took this opportunity to pull Mark closer and kiss his lips. "Mm. I can do this," Roger promised, kissing Mark again, repeatedly. "I can do this," he promised, smothering Mark with kisses that would, but for their multitude, have been chaste.

Mark stroked Roger's hair. "Poor Catholic boy," he said, moving into the kisses, using his tongue. "You don't know what you're headed for."

Roger giggled. "I'll manage," he assured Mark. They were tangling, pushing against each other, their kissing rapidly becoming something more than kissing. Alarm bells pounded in their ears, their perversity urging them forward.

"No bread for a week."

"But the light in your eyes will sustain me." Roger loved talking sweet to Mark. Equally he loved the dirty chatter of foreplay, but the emotional nature Roger tried to keep guarded surfaced occasionally, and he found the light-hearted, half-joking sweetness eased the pain of pure love.

"No waffles."

"Only your sweet kisses!"

"No pasta, no pizza, no rice…"

"I die only without _you_."

Mark giggled. "You're being perfect," he scolded, then leaned in for another kiss.

At that moment the door opened and a cheerful greeting entered: "Mark, I hope you're up and-- woah!" Samuel Cohen froze. The boys inched apart and out of one another's arms. "I hope you weren't just…"

Mark shook his head fervently. "We weren't," he said. "Just kisses, Dad." Roger nodded so hard his brain hurt, agreeing that they had done nothing but kiss.

A memory swam to Mark's mind, that of the first time Samuel walked in on a kiss. Mark had been thirteen, on the living room sofa with frizzy-haired Nanette Himmelfarb, licking her purple braces, when Samuel walked in. "Woah, Mark," he said. "Do that in your room, son!" Mark had blushed crimson, Nanette had giggled, and Samuel had ruffled his son's hair before heading upstairs, laughing.

Now Samuel nodded. "I want a word with you, Mark. I'm goin' out to work soon, so get dressed and I'll see you in my room, okay?" Mark nodded. "Okay." And Samuel left, shutting the door behind him.

Mark groaned and buried his face in Roger's shoulder. "It's okay," Roger promised. He stroked Mark's hair and cuddled him. "It's okay."

"No-- it's just--" Mark shook his head. "I need to go."

He stood, tossing off the blankets, and opened the bureau drawer. Surely his size hadn't changed much since he was eighteen. He should be able to find something. "Mark?" Roger asked. He sat up in bed, the covers pooled around him. "What is it?"

Mark shook his head. "It's nothing." He pulled a T-shirt off, tossed it into the laundry basket in the corner and began buttoning a blue dress shirt. He wanted to appear more than presentable to his father. Though he called the Cohen house 'home', Mark felt uncomfortable walking the place in sweats.

"It's not nothing," Roger said. "It's something enough to upset you."

"It's just…" Mark sighed. Roger would continue at this like a dog with a bone; when he was in this mood, the easiest response was simple indulgence. "My entire childhood, I felt like if I crossed the line he would snap." He stripped off his sweatpants and shoved his left leg into he wrong hole of his corduroys. "Like he would hit me," Mark elaborated, trying once more and putting his trousers on correctly. "He never did, but whenever he got mad I just froze like… all the love drained out of me. He could hurt me because there was no love stopping him."

Roger stood, crossed the room and hugged Mark. "No one can hurt you," he promised.

---

Mark sat on his parents' bed, feeling small and childish. He licked the corners of his mouth; they were dry and sticky in a heartbeat. His hands clasped the air. Roger had been putting Mark through what he liked to call 'rehab', making him leave the house without his camera. He had learned to go days without filming, and they were not bad days. They were Roger's days.

_Mark itched. It was early yet in his 'rehab' program, and leaving the house without the camera was difficult. Roger tried to engage Mark. He pointed to an intersection ('Seamen' and 'Cummings') and giggled, danced a stupid dance, and even bought the pretzel Mark had admitted to loving despite their tourist connotation. Nothing worked._

_At last Roger leaned in and pecked Mark's cheek. "Do you love me?" he asked._

_"Yes."_

_"Do you trust me?"_

_"Yes."_

_Roger took off his scarf and tied it around Mark's head. "What are you doing?" Mark demanded. "Roger--" He raised his hands to untied the scarf._

_Roger took Mark's hands in his. "Trust me," he said. "I'll take care of you."_

_Mark followed Roger nervously, led by an arm around his waist and Roger's gentle voice in his ear, murmuring, "You're safe. It's okay. Just a few more yards. That's it. We're nearly there. Okay, it's okay, almost--here! Close your eyes."_

_Roger positioned Mark, tilted his head, then untied his scarf. "Okay, open your eyes!"_

_Mark was staring out at the Statue of Liberty. He lived in New York, and so avoided tourist attractions, but it was not a matter of tourism today. It was a matter of beauty. It was a matter of the way the sun danced from swell to swell, sparkling, there one moment and the next gone, taunting and unfathomable. It was the little tourist children seeing for the first time this marvel, the precocious child telling her sister about the French and rust. It was about Roger's arms around him and his voice warm in his ear: "Isn't it beautiful, Mark?"_

_Then Roger kissed Mark's neck, and they stood until the cold drove them home._

Mark's hands itched again for his camera, anything to detach him from the nausea and nervousness twisting his gut.

"Marcus…" He noticed that his name had changed again. "I don't get it," Samuel admitted. "I don't. I don't get how what you feel for him is the same as what you feel for a woman."

"It's not, Dad," Mark tried to explain. "I'm--"

But Samuel didn't want to hear him. "Look, I'm not gonna get it, okay? But you're my kid. And I love you. So if you could just keep that… stuff… to a minimum, all that… touching and stuff, then that's just… then we'll just ignore it, okay?"

It was not okay. It was not at all acceptable. Mark asked, "Then you'll at least try to get to know him?"

Samuel shook his head. He paced. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and said, not addressing his son, "You try… all your life, you try to do what's right, raise them right, do what the Torah says, you try to keep all the Commandments even when you can't remember 'em… and they turn around with this. They turn out like this. Suddenly everyone turns into that." He turned to Mark. "It's not something I can understand," he said. "It's not something a guy like me gets. But tell you what-- you tell the family he's just a friend, you don't do any of that… that gay stuff at the table, and I'll try to get to know this friend."

_But he's more than a friend._ But Mark agreed to keep his hands to himself. He knew Roger would do the same. As he left the room, he added, "Dad, it would mean a lot to me if maybe, in time, you could come to see that Roger and I are more than just friends."

Samuel shook his head. "It's not something I believe in, Mark," he said. "I spent my whole life not believing in it."

Mark nodded. He could not very well ask his father to change his belief on the moment. After all, Mark couldn't see from Samuel's perspective, either.

TO BE CONTINUED

Though I disagree with Samuel's perspective, I have tried to portray him fairly.

Also 'perversity' as it's used is intended to mean a natural inclination to act against authority.


	6. The Seder Begins

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Around seven o'clock, the sun sank. After a brief introduction ("This is Roger, my roommate. Roger, these are my grandparents, Rachel and Joshua Cohen.") and a slew of complaints concerning the timing of the trains and the rudeness of the people on them, the family sat around the table. A small paperback book with a shining cover had been placed at eight of ten plates; Cindy's sons were not given books.

Roger leaned nearer to Mark and whispered, "What are these? I thought a seder was a dinner."

"It is," Mark replied. "But first we read from the Haggadah. It basically tells the story of Passover and why we're celebrating tonight."

Roger nodded. "Oh." He did not understand. "So we just read our haggadahs for a while?"

Had the situation been less severe, Mark might have laughed. As it was, he only felt a slight ease in the tension of sitting around the table with his ancient, Orthodox grandparents and his male lover. "They're read aloud. And it's haggadote, not haggadahs."

"Okay."

Across the table, Lea tugged on Cindy's sleeve. "Mommy, I don't feel good," she complained.

Cindy kissed her daughter's forehead. "Then maybe you shouldn't have been eating chocolate all day. Come on, you're just excited. It's Passover. Oh, David, no!" She hurriedly removed her son's hand from a plate of wide crackers.

"But I'm hungry!" David whined.

"Sweetheart, seder first. Behave!"

Again Roger leaned over and whispered, hot breath tickling Mark's ear, "Why the crackers?"

And once again, had the situation been less solemn, Mark might have laughed at his friend's naivete. "Those are matzot," he said. "It's unleavened bread, which is all I'm allowed for a week."

"Why?" Roger wondered. "Sounds like Lent."

Mark's defenses broke. Though Roger had no way of knowing this, he was asking questions included almost word-for-word in the Haggadah--except, of course, for the comment about Lent. Mark smiled; Cindy was not the only person to notice the sparkle in her brother's eyes. Mark leaned over and whispered, "Baby, just wait, okay?"

Patience had never his strong suit, but Roger nodded. "Okay," he said, and gave Mark's hand a quick squeeze under the table. Mark grinned. He liked being near Roger, being touched by him. This dinner served to remind him of that.

"The sun is now hidden, and the full moon is rising," Samuel read, beginning the seder. Roger instinctively glanced over his shoulder; the moon _was_ full. As Samuel continued his reading, he explained that the seder told the story of slavery in Egypt in biblical times, but it was no fairy tale. It was a true story. It would be read in present tense, in first person plural, to "help is happen tonight to each of us." At this point he glared at Roger, who set his jaw and sat up a little straighter.

Together, the Cohens recited a blessing as Lily lit two white candles in stout blue holders. Roger stumbled through the Hebrew, following along in his haggadah, painfully aware of Rachel's eyes on him. He lowered his gaze, aware only of the book in his hands.

After he had struggled through half the blessing and the Jews, even five-year-old Ethan and David, recited it in its entirety, Joshua touched Roger's hand. His skin was cool and smooth as wax. "It's 'Elohaynu', son," he said. "Just for the next time." And he gave Roger an encouraging smile.

The uncomfortable heat drained from Roger's body. "Thank you," he said.

"May each of us help kindle flames of hope and freedom," Lily recited. It was not her son's part to echo, "Hope and freedom," but the words moved his heart. Another blessing was read, then one for wine, both essentially thanking G-d for the item in question.

Roger squirmed. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he asked Mark quietly, "Can I leave for the bathroom?" The air of ceremony around the table was thick, and Roger felt it almost a sin to break it.

"Wait for the afikohmen," Mark told him.

Roger had no idea what an afikhomen was, but he nodded, trusting Mark.

"Help me with the next piece, buddy," Samuel said. Mark looked up, realized what had been asked of him, and fetched a bowl of water from the kitchen. He carried the bowl around the table, giving each member of the seder a chance to rinse his or her hands. Cindy smiled at him as he paused beside her, then quickly reprimanded her sons, who were flicking droplets of water at one another.

"According to ancient custom, we wash our hands, but no blessing is recited," Samuel read in his thick New England accent. Roger had noticed the same accent on Rachel and Joshua's words, but thought better of asking them from where they hailed. Beyond niceties, he said nothing. This was a beautiful thing, a holy night. Roger sensed that. He was not going to ruin it.

"Washing our hands is a way of showing that we hope to purify our hearts," Samuel read. He glanced at Mark and emphasized the last three words. Mark raised his eyes to meet his father's gaze. Across the table, they glared, neither showing hatred or anger, only resolve. For a long moment they looked at one another steadily, then Joshua patted Mark's arm and Samuel gave a little nod as though saying, okay, Mark. Enough now.

"It is also a way of feeling clean and ready to take part in our seder."

Mark offered the bowl to Roger last. By then, after watching the Jewish adults, Roger knew what to do. He meant to imitate them, but he had to raise his eyes. He had to glance at Mark. What he saw made his heart kick. Mark looked the same, yet completely different. He was well dressed; Roger had noticed this earlier. He had not seen such determination in Mark's face. He had not seen that the blue of his eyes seemed a veil reflecting pain and tears.

Perhaps it was the way Mark's glasses shone in the candlelight or the shadows dancing in the hollows of his cheeks. Something made Roger melt. Something made him realize, _I love you._ And before he could help himself, his mouth formed the words, silently, privately. Because fuck 'em, Mark needed to know.

---

Roger splashed cold water on his face and scrubbed. "Uhh…"

What was _wrong_ with him? No one had commented, if they noticed his little message to Mark. Nevertheless, Roger felt like a fool. He had promised Mark, given his word, then gone and broken it before even the story began. What an idiot! After Mark worked so hard to extract the promise, too.

_"We need to talk."_

_Roger looked up. Mark had returned from his father's room and was practically trembling, but standing with an appearance of false certainty. "What is it?" Roger asked._

_Mark told him, "Tonight, I'm going to introduce you to my grandparents as a friend."_

_Immediately, Roger exploded, "What? I thought you wanted them to meet me, _me_, and to tell them the truth about yourself."_

_"Well…" Mark shrugged. He did want his family to know the truth. It felt like such a lie, that little thing, his homosexuality. Every time he spoke to Grandma Rachel, his stomach twisted as she eventually began her offers to set him up with one of the many nice Jewish girls whose grandmas she knew. "I mean, maybe if they can get to know you as my friend first… And it won't be strange. We were friends. We'll just act like friends, just not use pet names or touch, and it'll be fine."_

_"That's ridiculous," Roger said. "That's a lie."_

_"Not… exactly. I mean… Roger, it won't be easy for them. You're… I mean, you're nice and you're great, but you're a goy. That alone…"_

_When Roger gave his response, it was measured and calm. He gripped his arms tightly, hugging himself. "You're ashamed of me?"_

_"No!" Mark replied hastily. "No, Roger, I'm not. I just… they don't think homosexuality is okay. And I really want this night to go well. If they like you, they might be able to accept you as my lover."_

_"Well, what if they don't?" Roger asked. "What if it isn't okay to them that you and I are sleeping together? Do we stop being 'us'? Do you think we can still be friends, time will turn back?"_

_Mark shook his head. "I wouldn't leave you," he said. "You know that--"_

_"I thought I did. But now you're ashamed of me. You're keeping me in your closet, releasing me bit by bit, just as much as is okay to your family. Like they control your life. They'll never approve," he concluded, shaking his head. His voice was heavy and sad._

_Mark sat on the bed and wrapped his arms around Roger. Though Roger said nothing, Mark knew he felt better for the hug. "I would never leave you," he said. "I just want, if it's at all possible, for my family to approve. It's important to me… they're important to me. Please, Roger, do this for me. Knowing that no matter what happens, I'll stick by you."_

_He had no choice but to agree._

Roger opened the door and was immediately shoved aside by a child. Before he could snap, or at the least object to the rudeness, she had lifted the toilet seat and begun vomiting. Roger knelt beside her and pulled back her hair. He rubbed her back with his free hand as she was sick.

Lea was apparently finished after the third time. She looked up at Roger with big eyes standing out from her sallow face. Sweat soaked her hair, dregs of puke clung to her lips, and the color was drained from her face, making her appear much older than her seven years. "Thank you," she croaked, then burst into tears.

"Lea!" Cindy appeared in the doorway. "Honey, I'm sorry," she said, kneeling beside her child. She pulled a stream of toilet paper and clean Lea's face as Roger ran water from the tap into a plastic cup.

"Here." He offered the cup awkwardly to Cindy. With a nod she took it and gave the cup to Lea, who rinsed her mouth out and spat into the toilet, then flushed her vomit.

"Bedtime," she told her mother, who nodded. "Okay." Lea left the room. Cindy followed, leaving Roger alone, mystified. He had never been skilled with children. Drunken vomiting, however, was nothing new to him. He had held the hair of more than his share of groupies. Yes, puking ladies were his specialty.

Roger laughed, inopportunely amused, washed his hands once more, and was leaving the bathroom when Cindy joined him. "Hey," she said.

Heat splashed. "Hi," Roger replied, suddenly aware that the two of them were completely alone.

"Thank you for taking care of her."

Roger shrugged. "It's nothing."

"It meant a lot," Cindy countered. She touched his arm, let her palm come to rest just above his elbow. "I'm divorced, Roger," she confided. "Having a man around means a lot to Lea. And to me."

Roger pulled away. This wasn't right. He was Mark's boy. "You have your father and your brother," he muttered.

"Family," Cindy retorted. "Even my children feel the difference with a man who chooses to help."

She reached again for Roger, and again her stepped back. "You don't need any man," he said.

"This is about desire."

Roger's throat constricted, chafing in its dryness. This was wrong. He knew beyond any doubt the wrongness of the situation. Cindy wanted attention from anyone. Even had he not been taken, he would have rejected her. She had no real feelings for him, only missed… who knew what? Perhaps sex, perhaps comfort, perhaps having someone to lie beside at night.

"We should get back to the seder," he said, and hurried back downstairs.

TO BE CONTINUED!


	7. Matzah

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Mark knew something had happened when Roger returned to the table: he had his hands in his pockets and was watching the floor, practically blushing. Though he said nothing, his body language kept no secrets, especially from Mark.

"What's wrong?" Mark asked quietly, but Roger only shook his head. "Roger," Mark whispered, but in front of his family, he had nothing more to say.

"According to tradition, the youngest child asks these four ancient questions," Lily read from her haggadah, introducing the Four Questions.

There was a long silence as the family waited for the questions to be asked. "Mark," Cindy prompted.

"What? Me?" he asked. "I don't…"

Lily nodded. "Unless Roger wants to read them," she said. "You're our baby, Mark."

"Oh, I don't…" Mark's blush flew from his neck to his temple, painting his face crimson. "I'm not…" No one seemed particularly interested in his excuses. He glanced at Roger, itching with the knowledge that he would never live this down. Mark was not the singer. Oh, he could carry a tune, his voice was by no means difficult to listen to, but compared to Roger…

"Mah nishtanah halailah hazeh mikol halaylot? Shehb'khol halaylot anu okhleen ha metz u'matzah. Helailah hazeh kulo matzah." At least Roger had no idea what he was saying. The heat radiating off Mark's skin made his glasses sweat.

"Shehb'khol halylot anu okhleen sh'ar y'rakot. Ha lailah hazeh maror." _Two down, two to go._ Mark's chest felt tight. It had been years since he gave a Hebrew reading, let alone sang the words.

"Shehb'khol halaylot ayn anu matbeeleen afeelu paahm ehkhat. Halailah hazeh sh'tay f'ameem." _One more._ Mark was having trouble breathing. Why was he doing this? And more importantly, why was it humiliating him? He used to love this, the part of the seder that was his and his alone, his right.

And why not? Mark was the youngest, after all. He had reveled in his Jewish heritage as a child. As the friendless boy throughout middle and high school, Judaism kept him afloat. A part of Mark knew that without something to believe in, he would be lost. He loved being Jewish. The cryptic Hebrew and Aramaic words filled him with a spiritual feeling of individuality. In temple, Mark felt that he belonged. And he belonged now. This was his family. This was his right.

"Shehb'khol halaylot anu okhleen bayn yoshveen uvayn m'subeen. Helailah hazeh kulanu m'subeen," Mark concluded, his voice stronger.

"Honey, that was great," Lily said, smiling a little more than was completely believable.

"Really beautiful," Roger whispered. Whether he meant the Hebrew or the speaker, neither knew for certain.

The story itself pushed Roger's emotions, though he had no part in the reading. The story of slavery and quiet determination made his heart ache. He couldn't help but gasp at the announcement that all Jewish boys would be killed. His arms itched to embrace Mark. Roger knew the story was only that, a story, a history, but already he was lost to it. Already it felt real, he let it feel real.

There was a moment of triumph when Yocheved hid her baby and sent him down the river, and he was rescued by the pharoah's daughter. Roger's shoulders trembled slightly as the plagues grew worse. As the tenth plague swept Egypt and the Egyptian parents woke to find their firstborn sons dead, he began to cry silently.

The story did explain why for a week no leavened bread would be consumed: when fleeing Egypt, the Israelites had no time to let their bread rise, or really bake it. Roger understood, barely, his mind numbed by emotion.

"The sea crashes down on the horses, soldiers, and chariots; it swallows them up. They sink like stones."

"Oh!" Roger said before he could help himself. He brought his hand up to clean his face. "I'm sorry," he said, aware of the many eyes watching him. "So sorry…"

"It's okay," Mark said. He glanced at his father and his grandparents. He could not in good conscience let Roger cry alone, but he had promised not to flaunt his homosexuality in front of his grandparents. _Flaunt?_ he thought angrily. _I'm not flaunting it. I'm just… just…_ He rubbed Roger's shoulder. "It's okay," he said again.

Roger had cleaned himself up now and pulled himself together. "I'm very sorry," he said again.

He held himself together and even managed to smile during _Dayenu_. It was lucky, Mark reflected, that a song came next. Songs always helped Roger cope. He made it through the next two cups of wine, the repeated explanation of the seder plant, and the blessings of the matzah and maror.

And, finally, it was time to eat.

Cindy and Lily rose. Roger started to stand, offering to help, but Mark told him, "It's all right. Unless you did the cooking."

"Oh. Okay." Roger sat down again. He looked curiously at the bowl of soup handed to him. When told it contained matzah balls, he turned to Mark with a shocked expression. Mark lowered his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling at his Gentile boyfriend. He had never before met anyone quite as ignorant of Jewish customs. He had never before thought of matzah balls in that context.

"It's cracker crumbs and soda water," Mark said. Trust Roger to misconstrue everything! "My G-d, Roger!"

On Roger's other side, Joshua was snickering. He seemed to like Roger, unlike Rachel, who glared at him. "You didn't really think…?" Joshua asked.

"I… I wasn't sure," Roger admitted. "So it's… it's just crumbs and soda water?"

"In regular old chicken broth," Joshua assured him, then glanced around the table. "Ah. Well, son, it's all eyes on you now."

True to his perception, the entire Cohen family was watching Roger, some less obviously than others, as he held his spoon poised over the bowl. Roger blushed. It seemed whatever he thought of his first bite of matzah ball would determine his standing in their esteem. Briefly he flirted with the idea of avoiding the balls and drink broth. Roger liked broth, it was familiar. Broth was something the Boho boys made one another from Oxo cubes for colds, coughs and post-sex supper.

Unfortunately, taking a sip of broth would label him a coward. He would never bounce back from that impression. "Oh, man…" Roger smiled, not certain what else to do, and speared off a piece of matzah ball. He filled his spoon with broth for good measure and, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, tipped it into his mouth.

The spongy matzah ball practically dissolved on Roger's tongue, and slid easily down his throat with the broth. "Oh, it's good!" he said. "Wow."

And the dinner progressed. Though no one said a word, Roger distinctly felt that he had won a victory.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are like matzah balls: delicious, fulfilling, and at times very funny. Hint, hint.


	8. Samuel Decides

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns RENT

Cindy excused herself; "I need to check on Lea."

She left, and Roger's breathing deepened. No one noticed but Mark. _What--no,_ he told himself. _Roger wouldn't. Would he?_ Mark shook his head and absently rolled a mass of chewed potato around in his mouth.

Roger's new song was called "Beautiful Cliché" and was based on a journal entry. Roger had read the entry aloud as Mark rested against him, playfully giving little tugs on Mark's hair as he laughed at his teenage self. "Dear Alex, I love you. I don't want to ruin our friendship because I so rely upon it but, just being around you lifts my soul. I love you. Alex, I'm sorry. This is so lame. It's stupid. All my life I've spurned teenage romance. If I let this go, will it pass? Can I stop feeling this way? I don't know if this is for real, but Alex, it hurts! Love is agony.

"Oh, how truly, disgustingly cliché! I don't know, Alex, if I want to wait and twenty years from now speak of this to you and laugh with you at this silly teenage letter, written in the pouring rain with a fountain pen and butterflies in my gut. If only I could say it aloud! Yet I so fear that you will reply with disgust. I'm scared to lose you as a friend, too scared."

He sang the song and played his guitar. That alone sent girls wild. They loved the person conveyed in the words.

You're my pretty little everything

My bright, inspiring world

And you drop me on my knees

Please, please

Would you be my…

Would you be my…

Would you be…

In the final line, he raised the pitch of his voice and extended the vowel sounds, strumming his guitar to the end and, as the final notes faded concluding, "… mine?"

Roger's eyes returned to Mark as he sang. They returned, yet constantly strayed. Mark felt his heart twist. He shook his head at the silly possessiveness. Roger was playing the crowd. He wanted these girls hot for him, wanted them to buy his albums so the loft would not freeze him in the winter.

Roger's eyes wandered, and Mark sighed. He did not want to share.

Mark had never liked sharing. He had done it, because he was a good boy who obeyed his parents. He shared his sandwich in third grade with Terence, who was a bully and picked especially on Mark. But it was right to share, Mark knew that, so he shared.

Distant relatives made a gesture of sending gender-equal toys at Chanukah. Mark loved when they sent teddy bears, as many of them did, but he hated things like stencils or books, things he always had to ask Cindy's permission to use. He hated sharing with Cindy.

But surely, _surely_ there was no chance that her departure and Roger's ease were connected.

Roger, meanwhile, decided that he definitely liked Passover. Not that Roger was particularly selective--he enjoyed celebrations in general. But any celebration involving masses of food, Mark singing, a good story and four glasses of G-d-awful wine was high on Roger's list. There was conversation, but Roger was generally exempt from it. He sat quietly, ate, and occasionally told Lily how brilliant he thought the food was.

"This is a… laft-kuh?" he asked.

"Latke," Lily told him.

Roger repeated, "Latke. Latke?" She nodded. "Okay, got it. Latke. It's delicious."

Lily smiled. "You've said," she told him, "but thank you. Mark's crazy about them." She gave him a meaningful look. "Or at least he used to be."

"I'm eating!" Mark said. "Look." He speared half a latke and jammed it into his mouth, chewing painstakingly with a huge grin.

Satisfied, Lily explained to Roger, "Latkes are actually a Chanukah tradition, but we haven't had Mark home in so long, I thought maybe his favorite foods would remind him of the things he misses." Mark blushed. "And before I forget, Mark, you've gotten thin, honey."

Mark could not stop blushing. His temperature rose so high he felt woozy, his vision twirling. She meant well, but his mother had humiliated him beyond rationality and was continuing to such a degree that Mark feared he might simply lose consciousness. In fact, perhaps this was not so poor an idea. Perhaps when he awoke it would be over, he would be in the loft in New York, listening to the traffic go by. He would open his eyes and find himself using Roger as a pillow, breathing in his sweat.

Mark had his left hand on his thigh; Roger's hand found his. Mark smiled. He loved Roger's hands. His fingers were soft, up to the smooth calluses capping them. He bit his nails and filed them against his teeth. There was a rough patch of healing scab on his index finger. Mark folded his fingers within Roger's. The burning heat fled him, replaced with a slow, steady pulse of warmth.

A blue napkin hit Mark in the face. For a moment he was thoroughly confused. He looked to Roger, who shook his head. "What?" he asked, perplexed and amused.

Samuel said, "Ma…"

Mark looked to his grandmother, trying to form a question. It was such a strange thing to do, throwing a napkin at someone, almost like asking attention, and Mark was on the verge of laughing at the childish gesture.

"What, Samuel? You're just gonna sit there and let him do that?" she demanded, on "him" jerking her head in Mark's direction.

Samuel took a deep breath. "Mark's just eatin' his latke, Ma."

"Bullshit!" she retorted. David and Ethan looked at one another, giggled, and mimicked their great-grandmother, parroting her obscenity until she glared them to silence. Not only the children were silenced by Rachel's glare. Samuel sighed, but said nothing further. Lily shook her head. Mark froze, moving only to draw his hand from Roger's. His gut tied itself like a shaped balloon. He had not realized she could see.

Rachel demanded, "What's wrong with you, Marcus? You think just 'cause G-d doesn't talk to you directly, G-d doesn't mean you?" Mark said nothing, just looked at his lap. Roger's hand rested on Mark's thigh; Mark nudged him off. His cheeks were burning. "I suppose fucking your way--"

"Rachel, please," Lily interrupted. "The children…"

"You rather they grow up thinkin' _this_ is better?" Rachel asked, indicating Mark. Roger swallowed his fury. He wanted to comfort Mark. He wanted to take him in his arms and kiss his face, cover his ears and tell him not to listen. "It's not, Lily. Samuel. You know that. It's an abomination. This… _thing_," meaning Mark, "is _filth_. A disgusting little faigala. You should be ashamed to welcome it--"

"Grandma--" Mark appealed. He had soaked his face with quiet tears. Roger touched Mark's shoulder, his palm gently following the curve.

Samuel smacked the table for attention. "That is enough," he snapped. "You know what, Ma? If Mark wants to be queer, that's okay with me." He gesticulated furiously as he spoke, his hands flying about so quickly they blurred. "'Cause if that's what he really wants… well, maybe it won't please G-d. Maybe it doesn't. But he's my son, Ma. That's all I can see. He's my son and I'm proud of him."

"Then you're just as bad."

"Then I am," Samuel retorted, opening his mouth wide with each word, savoring it.

Rachel stared a long moment at her son, her lips curled into an ugly smile. Then she sniffed, raised her chin and said, "Then I go. Let's go, Joshua."

"Actually…" Joshua pointed at Roger, who noticed that the old man's fingers trembled and had no hair. He was nearing the end of his life. "I think he's a fine boy. Not a bad match for our Mark at all."

"Then I will see you in Boston," Rachel retorted.

"The buses run at this hour?" Joshua asked. Rachel opened her mouth, closed it, made a strangled sound and thumped into her chair.

The meal recommenced in silence. Knives scraped across plates. Glasses thumped to the table. Mark sniffled. Tears slipped neatly out from beneath his glasses and pattered onto his khakis, leaving dark spots. "Mark…" Roger rubbed Mark's shoulder, but Mark shrugged him off.

"I'm okay," he muttered, and reached for his wine.

For two minutes, Mark was given the courtesy of feigned ignorance. Not a word was said concerning his tears as his temperature climbed higher and higher under the imagined weight of their scrutiny. Then Cindy returned to the table. She strode briskly into the room, grinning, then looked at her family, at her brother, and asked, "What happened?"

Something about the question and the tension in the room made them snap. They began to laugh, unable to say at what they were laughing. "All right," Cindy said, feeling this was a joke at her expense. She sat and returned to her meal. "What's wrong with Mark?"

He bit his lip. _What's wrong with Mark?_ like he had done something wrong or been born wrong. But Samuel replied furiously, "Not one thing. Mark, stop crying."

But Mark couldn't. He couldn't help himself. It was all too much. As pleased as he was for his father's acceptance, his grandmother's words stuck in his mind. _It, filth, faigala. Thing, shame, abomination._ Mark had never considered himself as a gay man. He loved Roger. That was all there was to it. He loved Roger. It was nature, it simply was, not something he made or chose. Mark had never thought about it, never been spoken to so harshly, especially in his own home.

"Sorry," he muttered. His shoulders began to tremble and he sobbed.

Before Roger could touch Mark to comfort him, Samuel stood. "Mark," he said. "Upstairs. Now, please." Mark rose and left the table, watching his feet as they walked from the room. Roger glared daggers at Samuel's retreating back.

In truth, he hated himself in that moment. He had done nothing. This had been Mark's family, Mark's issue, but Mark's pain cut Roger deeper than words ever could and he, the fighter, had done nothing.

TO BE CONTINUED

'faigala' is an extremely rude Yiddish word. The closest equivalent in English is 'fag' but I think 'faigala' is worse.

The Four Questions are, (at least in my haggadah)"Why is this night different from all other nights? On all other nights, we eat leavened bread or matzah, tonight we eat only matzah. Why? On all other nights, we eat any kind of vegetable; tonight we must eat bitter herbs. Why? On all other nights, we do not dip herbs even once; tonight we dip twice. Why? On all other nights we sit up straight or recline on pillows; tonight we must lean on pillows. Why?" I'm the youngest child in my family, so the Four Question are either my part or my mother's, since she's youngest in her generation.

I hope you liked this chapter; reviews would be awesome!


	9. Her Good Boy

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Mark knew he looked a mess. He shirt was wrinkled and his trousers dotted with spots of dampness where his tears had fallen. _Fuck._ He couldn't stop crying. As he climbed the stairs, his shoes turned to iron. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Samuel set his hand flat against his son's back. "Just keep going," he said.

Instinct sent Mark to his parents' bedroom. His knees turned to jelly. All his life, every time he stepped over the threshold Mark felt he was leaving home. He was stepping into the dark forest, braving Mordor, only without bravery. Mark made no choice, acted not for righteousness but out of coercion. Even after several incidents of violence, several nights sitting on the table with Roger rubbing ice across newborn bruises and pressing compresses to any bleeding place, Mark did not fear New York City. He feared this place, this moment.

He feared the moment in which he failed his father. The moment would make itself known with a sharp slap. Mark had never seen Roger hit, but he imagined that Roger would take a slap, let his head snap to one side, then slowly recover and respond with a terrifying violence. His eyes would blaze and his voice would send an attacker to his knees; Roger would not harm that person, he would just scare them so badly they begged for his mercy.

Mark would crumple to the floor.

Frantic, he tried to stop crying, scrubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry," he insisted. "I'm sorry. I know I promised, I know… I didn't mean to…" Now was that moment. Now climaxed Mark's failure as a son, now ended his life as a son. As he fought not to cry, the knowledge brought fresh waves of misery crashing down on Mark, crushing him.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, at last giving up. He stood, defeated, his head bowed, his arms at his sides. This was it. He heard the door close silently, heard Samuel's footsteps until he was close enough for Mark to see his shoes.

"Shh." Samuel wrapped his arms around Mark and held him. When had he gotten so small, so thin? "S'ok, buddy." Mark sobbed into Samuel's chest.

For the first time since Mark's arrival, Samuel felt comfortable. For the first time, he knew what to do beyond any shadow of doubt. This was his son. Maybe he was a homosexual, maybe he was sleeping with a gentile, but there was one unchangeable fact, and that was that Mark was his son. That mattered.

_"I can't help what I am, and what I am is _not_ a business major. It's just not in my heart!" Mark insisted, begging his father to understand. He could not continue at Brown. He would die._

_"Aren't you a little old for fairy tales?"_

_Mark hadn't said a word. His face registered pain and tears welled behind his eyes, but he would not let himself cry. He just picked up his bag and headed for the door._

_"You walk out that door, don't bother comin' back!"_

---

Lily pulled out the couch for Rachel and Joshua. The house had not felt so full in a long time. When Mark and Cindy were little they had shared a bedroom when their grandparents came to visit. When Cindy hit puberty, this ended quite abruptly. She insisted that she absolutely could not share a bedroom with her little brother; the reasons she gave mostly had to do with his being "really gross and disgusting."

Mark was not supposed to hear that discussion. He was not supposed to return from his after-school group half an hour early to stand in the doorway and listen to his sister describe in detail exactly what was wrong with him: "He's like a retard! He can't take care of himself, he can't even fasten his own overalls! And he talks in his sleep, and I'm sick of listening to you read him the same stupid book every night! I've already memorized it and _I don't care_ what happens when you give a mouse a cookie!"

After Cindy's fit, the couch was pulled out and the grandparents slept in one of the kids' rooms. As she set up the couch now, Lily realized that it had always been Mark. Mark gave up his room; "I don't mind," he lied, and though she knew it was a lie, Lily had been so relieved for an easy moment that she just kissed his cheek and said, "Thank you, Mark. You're my good boy."

He was pushed aside so often. Cindy, puberty and high school was a dangerous combination. Suddenly she had a group of friends, five girls who gathered together in Cindy's room and stayed up laughing and eating all the snacks in the house. Mark again insisted that he didn't mind, he could work over the noise and he liked carrot sticks. He didn't need it rubbed in his face that he had no friends, but he never complained. He never complained when Samuel's doctor told him his blood pressure was dangerously high, and chocolate was banned from the house. Mark, ten years old and already thoroughly miserable, had watched as his sister smuggled chocolate bars in and stashed them in her closet, and as much as he loved Mr. Goodbar, Mark never broke the rule. That was Mark, always obedient, never raising a fuss. With Cindy for an older sister, it was no surprise.

The worst incident came three years ago, in 1989. After his "year off" in New York, "finding himself" in a grungy loft which he shared with a dangerous teenage runaway and an eccentric oft-caught-between-jobs philosopher, Mark went to college. Within three months, letters began to arrive.

The first was from the Dean of Discipline. Mark's student advisor had not known where else to turn. The dean recounted the concern for Mark's emotional and psychological health. He was adjusting poorly, fitting in poorly. No one complained, there were no fights, no trouble, but Mark did not seem completely happy.

"What's wrong with that kid? He only ever makes friends with these weird cast-offs. There's plenty'a fine people at Brown and if just stopped sulking and gave it half a chance he'd see that…" The lecture would have been fine if addressed solely to Lily, but Samuel had to drag Mark home for it.

The second letter was from the school's psychiatrist. The psychiatrist would like their permission to speak with their son. "These sessions are much more productive with parental support," he said, and Lily gave her consent. This would be fine. Samuel would hate it, so he must never know.

Mark made it to second semester. Shortly after the semester began the third letter arrived. "Mark has made very little progress," reported the psychiatrist, "and though I am not at liberty to discuss specifics I urge you to take action to ensure that Mark understands that you love and support him." After Mark's grades were released, Lily understood where the questions came from.

"Grades are all he's ever been good at. He's gonna throw that all away now? No, he'll just have to try a little…"

It wasn't that Samuel didn't love Mark. He did. He had great faith in Mark, and wanted him to fulfill his potential. The best way to ensure this, in Samuel's opinion, was to challenge the boy. Which, in Lily's opinion, was what landed Mark back home, telling his parents that at twenty, he was ready to leave college despite not having completed his freshman year. He wasn't happy.

For three years after that, Mark never returned Lily's letters and phone calls. He had shut her out of his life completely. _Samuel_ had shut Mark out of her life.

"There, that should be fine now," Lily said, indicating the folded-out couch. Already Cindy was sharing a room with her children and Mark with Roger; there was so little space.

"Thank you. Good night, Lily."

"'Night, Dad." Lily's own father had died when she was small, and she had easily accepted Samuel's parents as her own when she married him.

She climbed the stairs to her room; she heard crying and nothing more. Lily's heart jumped wildly. What had he done? She stood to lose him again, once more to lose her son. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door.

"Oh, thank G-d."

Mark sat on the bed in tears. Something about tears had always humiliated Mark, from the time he was five and Andie Sanders made his mouth bleed. He sat with his shoulders slumped, arms resting on his thighs, hands curled together. His fragile body trembled with each sob, just as it always had. The only difference on that night was that as Mark cried helplessly, Samuel held him with an arm around his shoulders, opposite hand on Mark's head as though somehow he could shut out the things Rachel had said.

Lily closed the door and retreated, a touch jealous. Her son had come back. Mark had come back.

But she was the one who called and wrote. She was the one who asked after him, the one who approved the psychiatric visits, the one who told him that he could be a homosexual and still be a Cohen. Yet when Mark returned, he returned to Samuel.

TO BE CONTINUED!

For the record, I love _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie._ Almost as much as I love reviews! (hint, hint) Also I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.


	10. I Can Explain

Disclaimer: As we know, Jonathan Larson is the Supreme Creator of RENT and _wearenotworth_.

Roger stood at the sink, feeling extremely awkward. He dunked his hands into the soapy water, rinsed the plate in the next basin and handed it to Cindy. Why was he working with Cindy? Why could he not have kept his big mouth shut and agreed when Mrs. Cohen said that as a guest, Roger didn't need to help with the dishes. Roger had insisted, and now here he was with Cindy Cohen, alone.

"May I ask you something?"

No. "Sure."

"Don't you know the story of Passover?" Cindy asked. "I can't imagine a man from the city not knowing it."

Roger shrugged. "I'm not originally from the city," he said, "but of course I know the story. I've just never had anyone tell it like it was happening to me. It's like being a little kid and scared that the wolf will blow down your bedroom door." _You never know, as a kid, that the wolf isn't the one to fear. It's not strength. It's cunning. It's the fox._

Cindy nodded. That made sense. "Listen, about earlier--"

"We don't need to talk about it," Roger muttered.

"I was wrong," Cindy said. Clearly she needed to talk about it, wanted to; Roger stiffened. He was not dissimilar. Whenever he wanted an issue closed, he needed discussion after discussion of it, an in-depth analysis of each action and an understanding of motivation. Roger had learned early that this approach bothered people and no one cared _why_ something was done, so he learned to squash his concerns and make peace internally.

"In so many ways… You know, it's funny, I never cared much for my brother, growing up."

Roger was growing less and less fond of Mark's sister. He saw nothing amusing in that. Roger was upset when random strangers bumped into Mark and didn't apologize. That his own sister could so easily disregard him… Roger's chest didn't feel right.

"He was just kind of there. Looking back, he was miserable. He… had no friends, I didn't care, Dad was always pressuring him… And I only noticed him around report cards, when I was jealous. I had everything he didn't, and I still wanted the one thing he had."

Is she trying to justify herself? I'm not the right person.

"Nothing's changed. I still want what he has. The difference is that now, he has everything. Mark has his own place, he's happy, he has a boyfriend--"

"Maybe it's just who he is," Roger blurted. His head dipped nearer to the water. That was wrong. Angry as he was with Cindy, he was a guest.

"Probably," Cindy agreed quietly.

Roger raised his eyes. Was she playing him? Did she want to be comforted? The ploy would have worked, had he not been wary of it. Yet Cindy turned away as she wiped her eyes.

"I can't justify what I was doing," she said. "I know that. I just… I can explain," she managed. "I can make sense out of it."

Roger nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'm listening."

Cindy inhaled deeply. "I did it right. I married a doctor and had Jewish babies with him. And then I divorced my Jewish doctor when he admitted to his affair with a nurse called Montana. And I live here, in my parents' house, and I'm… I'm in school and working as a fucking _secretary_…" Throughout this entire tirade, Cindy held herself together. She did not cry, did not even pause in dish-drying. It was this more than anything that won Roger's respect. "Like I said, I can't justify what I did. It was a jealous, arrogant act and… I regret it, very much."

Without using those particular words, she was asking his forgiveness. Roger bit his lip. He hated being cross with anyone, but Cindy's flirting had been more wrong by Mark than by Roger. "I think," he said, "that you should speak to your brother."

---

Mark sighed. The water drained from the tap as the room filled with noise: splashing water, whistling in the pipes, Mark's heavy breathing. He looked at himself in the mirror and repressed a shudder. His face was splotchy, his eyes shimmering and swollen. "Happy Pesach," he told himself, somewhere between wry and furious.

He folded his glasses and set them carefully aside before filling his hands with water and bringing them quickly up to his face. The cold stung and he blinked his raw eyes rapidly, but he felt much calmer now. He took another deep breath and another as he toweled his face dry. "That's it," he promised himself. There would be no more tears now. He didn't think he could pull himself out of another fit.

Mark tossed down the towel and groped for his glasses. He could see without them; he could walk about without tripping or stumbling, find things in a room. Edges blurred, though. He would stub his toes and not be able to read from a distance. He wasn't blind, but he was impaired, and the transition from confusion to clarity always left him with a small headache, so he kept his eyes shut as he sought his glasses.

There!

Mark slid the plastic frames onto his face and opened his eyes. "Well, you look nice," he told his reflection sarcastically. Behind him, someone giggled. Mark whirled around.

Ethan and David stood in the doorway; under Mark's gaze David suddenly became interested in the tiles of the bathroom floor. Ethan stared at Mark. "What are you doing here?" he asked after a moment. "Why did you come?"

Though he had asked himself that question, Mark was stung. "Because this is my home," he said.

"No, it's not," Ethan retorted.

"Shut up," David hissed, and was ignored.

"You don't live here. We do. This is _our_ home." He had his hands on his hips, brown eyes firmly set. Cindy's children looked nothing like Mark. Cindy looked nothing like Mark. In fact, Mark was the only blond Jew he knew in the entire Scarsdale congregation, excluding his father who had been blond but now was more silver-grey.

Mark had nothing to say. He just nodded. "Well, I'll be gone in another day or two," he said. "Now let me by." Ethan scampered. David followed Mark down the hallway to his room; when Mark sat on the bed, David paused at the doorway, leaning into the room but not daring to cross the threshold. Mark put his face in his hands. He had not noticed his nephew.

David, a born sleuth, knew how to disappear. He became a shadow as his mother passed him by, and remained so as she sat on the bed beside Mark. "How are you?" she asked, rubbing slow circles on his back.

Mark laughed. "How am I?" he echoed, then shook his head. "You don't have to do this. We weren't that close, I'm okay with that," he muttered, more hurt than he was cold.

"What if I'm not?" Cindy asked. "What if I'm sick half to death of only ever feeling envy for my little brother? I should've taken care of you, Mark."

Something in the statement aggravated Mark. Did she want to make amends? Was she going to do that now, after her diction at the table suggesting an innate deficiency? Now, after three years of silence, after so many times sitting by as Mark was chewed out and lectured to the brink of tears? And now, now when the climax of his sorrow was past, she wanted to make amends.

"Yeah, you should've," Mark said.

Cindy nodded. "I… wronged you," she said. "A lot." Mark agreed. "And tonight, I… I think tonight I did the worst thing I have ever done." She had his attention: for the first time, Mark looked at Cindy. His eyebrows were up, awaiting an explanation. Cindy took a deep breath. "You remember how I was always taking things? Like I took that fountain pen when you were fourteen, or your Snickers when you were six." She laughed. "Maybe you've forgotten the Snickers. I downed half the thing and jammed the rest into your hands, then--"

Mark interrupted, "Get to the point, Cindy." He immediately regretted it. He had never snapped at his sister before, and she seemed to shrink away.

"Right. Well, tonight I… I tried again," she said. "I tried to take something I had no right to. I hit on your boyfriend."

Mark's eyes widened. "On… on Roger?" he asked, unable to believe it. "You came on to Roger?" Cindy nodded. "Fuck!" Mark shook his head. "How could you… how could he--"

"He didn't do anything!" Cindy added quickly. Mark was on his feet now, casting about with his eyes and shaking his head, trying to understand. "I just said a few things and touched his arm. He shook me off and left the room. It was while we were hiding the afikhomen."

"Ok." Mark nodded. His head was pounding, his eyes throbbed. What had happened? How had this happened? Why? More than anything, he needed to talk to Roger. He needed to know that nothing had happened. He needed to hear that from Roger's lips that everything was all right. "I just… need you to leave the room," he said. "I want you to go. Please."

Cindy nodded. She rose and sobbed quietly on her way out the door, until she was nothing but mussed sheets where she had rested to speak with her brother.

Mark collapsed onto the bed. He stretched out with his head in his hands, wishing anything made sense. His family… hated him. His mother had looked at him only with tears in her eyes, he made Cindy cry--Cindy. Should he care? He didn't. She brought it on herself. She never understood boundaries. Idiot sister, she got her comeuppance and that was that.

"Uncle Mark."

At a tug on his sleeve, Mark opened his eyes. He glanced at the small child, the boy who only the previous day greeted him with an enthusiastic bite on the leg. "What is it, David?"

David grinned. "I like you," he said.

TO BE CONTINUED!


	11. Dear Mark

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

When Roger entered the room and saw Mark standing by the bookshelf, the first thing he did was step forward, intent on wrapping his arms around Mark and kissing his neck and telling him that he was loved. Mark's glare stopped him dead.

"Tell me what happened with Cindy," Mark said. Roger lowered his eyes, and Mark's throat constricted. So there was something, at least, something about which Roger felt guilty. "Roger, I need you to look at me and tell me what happened."

Roger raised his eyes. He could do this. _I did nothing wrong_, he reminded himself. "Cindy flirted with me," he said, and immediately regretted it. He should have spoken without blame, somehow, kept from badmouthing Mark's sister. "She… Lea was sick, I held her hair back and Cindy was saying thanks, and she sort of rubbed my arm. I said I needed to get back to the seder and… that was it," he concluded. It was. Nothing more had happened."

Mark nodded. "Okay," he said. If Roger said so, that was that. Mark took his word. Roger had never been able to lie. He had never been the badass punk he struggled to fake.

_"Where did you go, Roger?"_

_Roger looked at the floor, then at Mark . "Nowhere," he muttered, his hands moving in his jacket pockets._

_After, when Maureen braved the apartment again, when Mimi, Angel and Joanne heard the stories, they would ask, did he hurt you, Mark? The question itched a place Mark could not scratch. Aw, did the scawy junkie hurt poow Markie? Because they meant well, Mark swallowed his pride and laughed. "Hey, we had our fights," he would say. "But I think I hurt him worse."_

_Mark slammed Roger against the wall, furious. "Where the _fuck_ did you go, Roger?" he demanded, breathing hard. "What did you do? You bought drugs, didn't you?"_

_"I need it…"_

_Mark gave one final shove and released Roger, turning his back. He whirled around and stuck out his hand. "Give it to me," he ordered. "Give me the drugs, now. Right now." When Roger refused, standing stock still, Mark grabbed Roger's arm and pulled his hand out of his pocket._

_Roger shoved Mark. "It's mine--"_

_"It isn't _fucking yours_!" Mark shouted. "You fucking child!" He tried to slip his hand into Roger's pocket, but Roger once more shoved him back. Mark lost his temper then. He swung at Roger's face and landed a fairly solid blow. Roger's head snapped to the side. He didn't say anything, just grabbed Mark firmly by the arms, restraining him._

_"Don't fucking touch me!" Mark snapped. "Stupid fucking junkie; get your fucking hands off me!" He broke free of Roger's grasp. Roger, his adrenaline fading, was nothing. He was tired and sore; it had been days since he had eaten and not throw up. His muscles trembled. Roger suddenly didn't care about the drugs. His cleaner half won. Mark could take it, Roger just wanted to close his eyes, lie down…_

_He reached into his pocket to bring out the heroin, and Mark, misinterpreting the gesture, hit him again. "Don't you fucking dare!" Mark told him. He couldn't stop himself. His fists moved by themselves, landing on Roger's shoulders, head, arms, chest. Whatever got in the way, Mark attacked._

_The story they imagined, the story Mimi, Angel, Joanne, Maureen and even Benny imagined, involved Roger assaulting Mark to run out and buy drugs. Mark knew that he fell asleep and Roger left without a fight. He knew that Roger didn't hurt him, did not raise one finger as Mark hit him._

_There was one aspect often imagined and completely accurate: it was Collins who pulled the boys apart. "Mark, calm down! Enough, man!" When Mark stopped struggling, Collins released him. Mark strode forward and once more smacked Roger across the face. "Fuck!" Collins grabbed Mark and once more hauled him away. "Mark--" But Mark kept struggling. "Okay, let's go."_

_Collins hauled Mark to his room and slammed the door. "The fuck, man?" he demanded._

_"He brought drugs into the apartment," Mark muttered._

_"Of course he did," Collins retorted, "he's an addict. And how many times has he apologized over the past week?"_

_Mark sighed. "Every fuckin' time he's lucid."_

_"Now you owe him. When you're lucid," Collins snapped, and left the room, shutting the door with less violence this time._

_When Mark decided he was lucid, or at the least calm, he crept out of the room. Roger's door was ajar--now that it was just the three of them in the loft, each man had his own room. Though sound carried and echoed, they had at least a modicum of privacy. From Roger's room, Mark heard hushed voices. He stepped up to the door, listening._

_"Sorry," Collins said._

_"It's okay."_

_"You didn't deserve this, Roger."_

_"Is he okay?"_

_"He beat you, not the other way around."_

_"Should I leave?"_

_"Don't even think about it."_

Mark opened his eyes. They were lying in bed, Mark nearest the wall, and by some amazing feat of twisted physics, they were not touching. Roger had his back to Mark, though not by any conscious design. "Rog?" Mark asked. His voice hushed naturally in the quiet darkness. "You awake?"

"Uh-hmm," Roger murmured.

"Did I ever tell you," Mark asked, wondering why he was not touching this boy who he had barely taken his hands off in months, "that, that time when you bought drugs and I… kind of lost it? I'm really sorry."

"That's okay," Roger said.

Mark sighed. "Oh, come here already, you must be half off the bed," he said, exasperated, and pulled Roger closer. It was his rough, proud way of telling Roger that what had happened with Cindy that evening was already forgotten. Mark nuzzled Roger's shoulder. "You're amazing," he said. "You've been perfect, Rog."

Roger said nothing. He took Mark's hand and pressed it to his lips. "I love you." The words choked Roger. His heart twisted into his throat, shutting off air with the painful realization of the emotion, the truth of it. He loved the pain of the words.

The moment had never seemed perfect to Mark. He did not want the first time he said 'I love you' to be over a bowl of cereal. He did not want it to blend with a thousand other times, and no time ever seemed right. Those that were perfect, in retrospect, Roger nabbed, leaving Mark no choice but to mumble, "Love you, too," which meant so much less.

---

Mark and Roger packed their bag the following morning. Roger slipped away while no one was looking and set his guitar gently on the back seat. He strode up the path to the Cohen house with a bounce in his step. Mark loved his family. Roger was more than pleased to return to the city, their cold loft, their bare shelves and dirty sheets. He waited by the door as Mark made his farewells.

Mark and Samuel embraced. "Visit again real soon," Samuel said, clapping Mark on the back.

"I will," Mark promised, grinning.

"We'll be waiting."

They embraced once more, then Mark was passed to Lily. He looked at his mother and tears welled in his eyes. "Mom…" He hugged her tightly. "Thank you so much," he muttered.

As Roger stood by the door, anxious to leave, Joshua approached. The old man cleared his throat discreetly and, when Roger turned, offered his hand. "You'll take good care of him," Joshua said, a request in disguise.

"Of course," Roger said. "You take care of _yourself_, Mr. Cohen."

Mark ended the hugs with his parents and joined Roger by the door. "You ready to go?" Roger asked.

"Yeah."

"'Kay." Roger grabbed their bag off the floor and slung it over his shoulder. He opened the door and rested a hand on Mark's back as he stepped through. That hand roamed to Mark's shoulder as Roger fell into step beside him. "You okay?" he asked.

Mark considered the question. Was he? His chest felt tight with the pain of leaving his home behind, the same tightness he had experienced leaving the first time, at twenty. He felt he was not leaving his home but leaving his home behind, and he was unready to sever those ties.

Mark glanced over his shoulder. Was he okay? A part of him wanted to break free of Roger's grasp and run home. He could endure that life: get a degree, a suit, a career, a mortgage. He could go back to school, to suburbia, to women. He would never be as miserable as he was now: no, that misery would be replaced with a wrenching nostalgia for the days he could not have, the man he chose not to.

They paused by the car, the beat up old excuse for transport. Roger squinted at Mark. "Hey, babe?"

"Hm?" Mark blinked, seeing Roger for the first time in what felt like ages since leaving the house. _He's dying._ He was beautiful and sweet, he was all kisses and cuddling and that puppy face asking Mark if he would listen to this new song. But he was also a sudden temper, an inexplicable coldness, blood tests and breakdowns and AZT.

"You coming?" Roger asked.

Mark shook his head. What was he thinking? The house had been a holiday, a lullaby. Why stay? Why stay for his mother's gossip, his father's criticism, after how proudly he had walked out the door all those years ago and discovered Bohemia?

Mark opened the passenger door and flung himself into the seat. He buckled his seatbelt. "Learn to use the fucking brakes," he advised, taking a letter from his pocket. "I want to read."

Roger leaned over and pecked Mark on the cheek before twisting the keys in the ignition. He sighed happily as the engine sputtered to life, churning wheels carried them home again.

_Dear Mark,_

_All I can think of is, what are the milestones in your life? They aren't the same as everyone else's. Your graduation, academic achievements, you're not using them. It's like they aren't achievements at all, like you're looking down on us saying, "Look. This is how good I am. This is what I could do. I would be so good in your world."_

_And you would, Mark. You'd change things and hold on to the morality you would never have learned if not for all that time spent in books. You'd do well, and I'd be proud of you. I'd brag all the time._

_You don't want that. Okay. You threw all that away. I don't understand. You're damn lucky, and you toss it. It seems ungrateful to me and I keep wanting to be furious with you, Mark, but there's a problem with that, and it's that every time I think of the day you left, I try to be angry. I try to think, 'That little schmuck, what did he think he was doing? How much did he know, the child?' But all I can think, Mark, all I can feel, is how proud I was the day you walked away without looking back._

_You can always come home to us, and I hope you will. I also hope you'll leave. I hope you'll go back to the city and make changes there. Because what the hell kind of changes does Scarsdale need? Fewer gossips and someone to convince Rabbi Himmelfarb that it's time to retire. I'm proud of you, Mark, and I want you to know that. You'll do well. I'm real proud of you._

_Love, Dad._

THE END!

I hope you all enjoyed my story--don't see that you'd've read this far if you didn't! I'd love to hear from you, reviews are like smack. Well, okay, like caffeine.

Also if you liked this oneI've posted the startto the sequel (shameless self-promotion!) called 'Jersey Boy' about Roger's home.

So long!


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